in no
doubt about the hammering, gallant fellow though he was and wore a
spur on his left heel. But no bodily deformity could have corroded
us as did those thrice-accursed garments with terror of the world
without and of its laughter.

Of a world yet more distant we were taught the gloomiest views.
Twice a week regularly, and incidentally whenever he found occasion,
Mr. Scougall painted the flames of hell for us in the liveliest
colours. We never doubted his word that our chances of escaping them
were small indeed; but somehow, as life did not allure, so eternity
did not greatly frighten us. Meanwhile we played at our marbles.
We knew, in spite of the legend over the gateway, that at the age of
ten or so our elder companions disappeared. They went, as a fact,
into various trades and callings, like ordinary parish apprentices.
Perhaps we guessed this; if so, it must have been vaguely, and I
incline to believe that we confused their disappearance with death in
our childish musings on the common lot. They never came back to see
us; and I remember that we were curiously shy of speaking about them,
once gone.

From Miss Plinlimmon's window above the eaves I could look over the
front wall on to an edge of roadway, a straight dock like a canal--
crowded with shipping--and a fort which fired a gun in the early
morning and again at sunset. And every morning, too, the drums would
sound from the hill at our back; and be answered by a soldier, who
came steadily down the roadway beside the dock, halted in front of
our gates, and blew a call on his bugle. Other bugle-calls sounded
all around us throughout the day and far into our sleep-time: but
this was the only performer I ever saw. He wore a red coat, a high
japanned hat, and clean white pantaloons with black gaiters: and I
took it for granted that he was always the same soldier. Yet I had
plenty of opportunities for observing him, for Miss Plinlimmon made
it a rule that I should stand at the window and continue to gaze out
of it while she dressed.

One day she paused in the act of plaiting her hair. "Harry," said
she, "I shall always think of you and that tune together. It is
called the Revelly, which is a French word."

"But the soldier is English?" said I.

"Oh, I truly trust so--a heart of oak, I should hope! England cannot
have too many of them in these days, when a weak woman can scarce lay
herself down in her bed at night with the certainty of getting up